Fantasy Kills

November, 1988

It was love at first sight. The man who walked into the Lone Star Café was handsome—nicely built, prematurely gray, tall, clean-shaven, blue-eyed. He smiled at me. A big "Hi, there, cutie" smile. Then he stood right next to me at the bar. Rita, three stools down, gave me a meaningful look. Cleo, two tables over, nodded approval. Irma Thomas, prima New Orleans chanteuse, was belting You Can Have My Husband, but Please Don't Fuck with My Man.And here's what, I swear, immediately went thr...